


Through A Glass Darkly

by leafchron



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: A lot of feels, Angst and Porn, Archie is...well..., Dark, Emotional Hurt, Heavy Angst, M/M, NSFW, Physical hurt too, Rough Sex, Sad, but mostly just sad, jughead is dark, not safe in general, sad sex, why do we hurt characters we love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-08
Updated: 2017-11-08
Packaged: 2018-10-09 06:44:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10406265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leafchron/pseuds/leafchron
Summary: Jughead has never been very good at self-preservation.What the heart wants, what the head wants.





	

It’s called masochism.

Can you spell it.

 

 

Archie says, _Can we not kiss,_ and he wants to roll his eyes, he wants to tell Archie drolly _I love movies but even I know this is not Pretty Woman_ , he wants to snark, _Even prostitutes do, it’s a misconception, you know._

Instead, he only drawls, _Don’t worry, Romeo, I know you’re saving yourself up for Juliet. Whatever’s left of your virtue is safe with me._

Never let it be said that Jughead goes in blind; for his eyes are wide open, knowing full and well aware of how terrible it is. He won’t play dumb. He won’t blame his youth, his inexperience, his lack of exposure. He will not shield himself with denial. He will not pretend he doesn’t grasp the full implications. He sees exactly, all the ways it is wrong, the extent of just how _wrong_ it

He knows, without self-grandiosity, objectively, the level of his intelligence; he knows, too that he the greatest fool suffering from the worst case of idiocy.

He knows it is terrible, and the knowledge of it the fact of it, does not give him the slightest bit of pause. If he’s going to do it, he will at the very least, be completely honest with himself. Flay himself open. Pry his ribs apart with a retractor. No less.

He must’ve missed the memo.

He was never very good at self-preservation.

 

 

He says, sardonically, _Come on, Archie. Fuck me. I know you want to._

The last part is a lie. He guesses there is some part of Archie that does, another part of Archie that doesn’t, and yet another part that hates himself for wanting to. If he repeats it frequently enough, convincingly enough, Archie might just let that very first part win out, and suppress all the other parts, at least temporarily. It’s not too hard to appeal to that part of Archie, to tempt the lizard brain. Archie is very strictly a sixteen year old boy, in the sense that impulse control and delayed gratification are not his friends. It’s not too hard to get that first part of Archie out to play, even if just for a little while.

It’s enough for his purposes. (And afterwards, Archie can pretend, _he couldn’t help it_. He’ll let him.)

Archie bits his lips pale, clenches his fists; Jughead knows he’s halfway to winning this battle.

 _Fuck me_ , he says again, a quirk of lips, a raise of eyebrows, a taunt and a plead in his voice, _Pretty please?_

He knows he’s won, not when Archie exhales heavily, unclenches his fists, lets the tension roll off him. Not when Archie murmurs, _yeah, all right,_ lust taking the place of anxiety slowly blowing his pupils wide. When Archie lets his shoulders hang in defeat, a surrender.

Internally there’s something like pleasure, victory bubbling, even as he keeps his face mostly neutral. _Come over here then._

Under the victorious, prideful waves, there is a small current trying to push it way through, _is it so bad if it’s me?_

He drowns it mercilessly.

 

 

Everyone whispers, _Archie got hot!_ He wants to rolls his eyes so hard. He wants to tell them all to back off. He was watching Archie even when Archie was a scrawny, lanky, accident-prone adolescent. He was cataloguing all of Archie’s muscles even when Archie had none. He has had years, years of experience of observing Archie from afar and not getting caught. He noticed Archie even when there was nothing to notice. They all have nothing on him, he thinks, nothing at all. Now Archie has some abs, and some pecs, and they’re all swarming him like vultures.

Back off, he snarls in his head. He’s mine. I saw him first. I saw him even when there was nothing to see, back when nobody else did.

They’re all superficial vultures, only eager to pick at the meat of Archie. It disgusts him. When he wanted Archie it was everything. Archie’s mind, his personality, his companionship, his graceless ease, the bonds of friendship between them that keeps Jughead glued to his side, Archie’s too huge heart to be sufficiently contained.

But if the others are all greedy vultures, greedy for the ripeness of Archie, he’s no better. In fact, he’s the greediest of them all, for he wants all of Archie, everything, he wants to consume Archie, brains and bones and all, not just his meat, consume him all.

It’s a deep, familiar ache, that gnaws endlessly on his bones.

 

 

At one point, in one terrible moment, he tells Archie, _you fucked Grundy, you would’ve fucked anyone that offered._

(He was smarting, oh so hard, from the slight. Left him waiting for hours, only to brush him off via a pathetic text, refusing to even answer his calls. He’d planned for so long and so intently. It would’ve been something to look forward to, something to store up memories of to tide him over in the time to come, and if he was very, very lucky, something that might’ve brought Archie back to him. He was, god, he was so excited. And happy, when he never let himself be. He’d let his guard down, and he’d actually _anticipated_ and he’d _hoped_ , when he should’ve known better. And when he’d found out just exactly why, long after the fourth of July, it had broken him. He had accidentally let himself crack, in that moment, spilling the glass shreds of him everywhere, that had cut Archie.)

Archie says _Fuck you_ , and slams the door, stomps all the way off, making sure he’s heard, making a point.

Two weeks Archie avoids him and pretends he doesn’t exist and it isn’t hard, sometimes he wants to pretend he doesn’t exist too, sometimes he wishes he could will himself out of existence too. Betty and Veronica and Kevin are stunned and keep trying to prod, to get things to unravel, but Archie finally learns how to keep his mouth shut, and he wills himself, away. Doesn’t exist.

Two weeks later and Archie’s back and back to normal and acts as though nothing has happened but he notices Archie watching him as he pretends he doesn’t notice and he knows Archie is considering, now. He’s planted the seed, and now he just has to let it bloom.

Everyone’s mutely and starkly relieved, and they think whatever it is, it’s over, but he knows, it’s just beginning. The worst is yet to be.

 

 

Archie knows absolutely nothing of how two men would do it, clearly has never come across anything of it and hasn’t thought to do any bit of research beforehand. He has to guide him without coming across as though he’s instructing him, and has to make it seem like it’s Archie’s idea.

Archie sticks two lubed up fingers into him without much grace and starts moving his fingers around, in and out bluntly, without preamble. He winces, stays silent. He lets it go on for as long as he thinks he can get away with, and right before Archie starts showing signs of overthinking it and losing his nerve and letting doubt creep in, he turns his head around and says, _that’s enough_ , _let’s do it._ He doesn’t miss the brief moment of relief that crosses Archie’s face, as he pulls his fingers out.

Archie lubes himself up, lines himself up behind him, and pushes swiftly in. It burns, all the way in, more than he’d thought it would. He fists the bedsheets, grinds his teeth so he doesn’t make a sound, swallowing back any whines that might accidentally slip past his lips.

Archie doesn’t wait, and starts thrusting in and out. It is sharp flares of pain but he doesn’t tell Archie to slow down. He could’ve but he doesn’t, just absorbs all of it. He thinks Archie wouldn’t be like this, would’ve taken more care, been more careful with Ms Grundy. Or hypothetically, Veronica. Betty. Valerie. Any other women or girl who would’ve given him a go.

But friends can be bruised, especially guy friends, disposable ones. Easily discarded, the promise of sex by the river, wins road trips hands down. The chance of a warm pussy, bouncy tits, overwrites a childhood lived together, years of friendship, being there for each other.

It hurts, hurts, hurts and he doesn’t complain, doesn’t stop Archie. He might never get another chance if they stop; Archie might actually wake up. He will take whatever he can, whenever he can. His focus narrows to the pinpricks of Archie’s calloused hands gripping his hips so tightly he will find bruises of fingerprints the next day, and the way Archie stretches him openly, impossibly so, like he’s being split open, until he feels he can’t take it anymore, and still he does.

It’s still better than having his heart split open, he thinks.

 

 

When they were eleven he was bullied in school for being from the wrong side of the tracks and Archie, shorter than him at that point, and just as scrawny, had jumped between him and his bullies, shielded him and stared the bullies down and yelled his head off that they had better not touch his friend and if they did they would have to deal with him.

Afterwards, adrenaline still pumping through his veins and fury still radiating from his eyes, Archie had turned to him and declared, _I will never let anyone hurt you again, Juggie,_ fierce and protective and self-righteous, looking all of ten feet tall.

Where had that Archie gone, and.

It turns out Archie had forgotten about the most important part, which was to protect Jughead from Archie himself.

Maybe Archie should’ve been on the lookout as well, to protect himself from Jughead too.

 

 

No moisture is lost from his eyeballs, not when Archie burns him through without a care, not when Archie finally comes in him and pulls out as soon as he’s done, making a beeline for the bathroom, not when the rush of running water comes on at once, like Archie’s trying to wash himself clean of him, not when he finally flops over, exhausted and pained, his limbs turning to jelly from holding himself up and still for so long, his back aching from being hunched over on all fours, not when he realises he’s still mostly flaccid, the pain killing his erection so efficiently he doesn’t even need to finish himself off, since Archie had neither bothered or offered.

He throws his arm over his eyes and lies there, unmoving, for a long time, listening to the sounds of a long shower. Tomorrow, he’ll find he aches so much, it’s hard to walk.

When Archie finally comes out, in clean clothes and towelling his hair dry, (good, Jughead thinks, he didn’t drown himself in the shower after all), he’s trying his damn hardest to look everywhere else around the room except at Jughead.

There’s a very long, heavily pregnant, deeply awkward pause, before Archie finally blurts out.

_Hey, look, dude…_

He gets it, he does. He doesn’t want to, but he does. He rolls off Archie’s bed, and starts pulling on his clothes again. Briefs. Jeans. T-shirt. Shirt. Jacket. He jams his beanie back on.

When he grabs his backpack and heads out Archie’s door Archie is still carefully staring at a corner of his room, careful not to look at him, never once looking at him.

He makes his way quietly, carefully out of Archie’s house, and he can still feel Archie’s come leaking out of him, slowly.

 

 

It is like a shard of jagged glass, glittering darkly, and still he holds it in the palm of his heart, wrapping his hand tightly around it, even as it draws blood from him and he thinks, he deserves it, for picking it up in the first place.

 


End file.
